


With His Head Held Aloft

by MissShawnaAlice



Series: Time Heals Everything [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Caring Sherlock, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Pain, Parentlock, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, St Bartholomew's Hospital, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissShawnaAlice/pseuds/MissShawnaAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft always thought he was above all the inane troubles that seemed to have Sherlock's name attached to them; he just didn't realise how wrong he could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Missing

“Mr Holmes? There’s a young woman here to see you.” Mycroft glanced up to see Anthea waiting at the door, being held uncomfortably close by a burly man with a weapon. A young woman stepped in, locks of blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, blue eyes sparkling.

“Miss Winters. I had hoped we wouldn’t meet again,” sighed Mycroft, standing up to greet the young woman.

“I hadn’t. I’d rather hope to meet your younger brother Sherlock, as he has a debt to repay. Although, I rather fancy some time spent with an older Holmes; perhaps you would be more experienced,” mused Miss Winters. Anthea struggled, and the sidekick holding her brought the gun down against her temple, and she crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

“That was highly unnecessary Michael,” chided Miss Winters. The man shrugged his shoulders, kicked Anthea hard, then trained his gun on Mycroft.

“Now, I had hoped to spend some time with Sherlock, but you are just going to have to do. Perhaps your brother will come and save you, and I can spend some quality time with both of you. Come along now.” Mycroft stepped out from behind his desk.

“I don’t believe I have any other option, do I,” sighed Mycroft. Michael advanced on him, knocking him unconscious.

“I don’t believe you do. Come along Michael. I have work to do.”

* * *

“I’m bored John,” muttered Sherlock, lying on the couch.

“You could look at those case files Greg sent over for you,” suggested John from the kitchen.

“I’ve already looked at them. None of them rank above a four, and I said nothing above a seven. Honestly John, it’s like you don’t listen!” Exclaimed Sherlock. John appeared in the living room, carrying a tea tray.

“Time for tea and a snack. Have you checked your blood sugar?” Asked John, setting the tea tray on the table.

“I haven’t got time for inane things like that,” scoffed Sherlock.

“You do if it could kill you,” responded John. He pulled out the little black kit, setting it up swiftly before grabbing Sherlock’s hand and pricking the tip of his index finger. Sherlock picked up a small sandwich, taking a tiny bite of it while watching John with mild interest. John pressed the bleeding tip of Sherlock’s finger against the test strip before pushing it into the reader.

“3. Eat a little more please,” directed John firmly. He heard the doorbell ring, and ignored it, not expecting anyone.

“John? John, it’s that girl that works with Mycroft!” Called Mrs Hudson, her tone worried. Sherlock glanced up, interested.

“No. You stay and eat, I’ll go see what Anthea wants,” ordered John. Sherlock pouted before taking another bite of the sandwich. John waited for a few more moments before heading for the door. Mrs Hudson was at the bottom of the stairs, wringing her hands nervously as she waited for John. 

“Oh thank goodness you’re here! The poor girl looks dreadful!” Exclaimed Mrs Hudson, hovering over a crumpled figure on the floor. John took the stairs two at a time, dropping to his knees. Anthea had blood dripping from a gash on the side of her head as well as her nose, and looked like she’d been thoroughly beaten.

“Mrs Hudson, could you get me some towels and some ice please? I’ll take Anthea upstairs and tend to her,” said John quietly. He carefully helped Anthea to her feet and supported her up the staircase, wondering what had happened to her.

“What’s going on?” Demanded Sherlock.

“Anthea’s hurt. Help me get her inside so I can check her over,” replied John. Sherlock stepped down to grasp Anthea’s other arm, glancing at John briefly before assisting Anthea. 

“What happened?” Asked Sherlock curiously.

“Sherlock, let her be for a few minutes. Go and do a crossword or something,” growled John. He sat Anthea down at the kitchen table before ducking into the hall closet to pull out his medi-kit, as well as two fresh towels. Sherlock trailed after him like a shadow, before settling behind John and peering over his shoulder.

“I was at Mycroft’s office,” started Anthea, voice hitching in pain as John gently pulled open her work shirt.

“Did he do this?” Demanded Sherlock.

“Sherlock, shut up!” Hissed John.

“No. Someone came in, asking for Mycroft, and they had a gun, and they took him!” Exclaimed Anthea.

“Where did they take my brother?” Asked Sherlock forcefully.

“I don’t know. She wanted you, but she took Mycroft instead! I’m sorry Sherlock. He hit me over the head with his gun before I could do anything,” answered Anthea, her head dropping as she started to cry.

“I’m calling Lestrade,” said Sherlock instantly.

“No-one knows what happened yet. I just got in a cab and came here! I’m sorry,” apologised Anthea, clearly on the verge of tears.

“Shh. It’s fine. Let’s get you cleaned up; I want to make sure you don’t have a serious injury,” said John diplomatically. Sherlock swept out of the kitchen in search of his phone, and John tended to Anthea’s wounds, carefully cleaning away the dried blood before pulling together the edges of one laceration and holding it closed with several butterfly stitches.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I think Mycroft is in serious trouble John. We need to find him,” said Anthea desperately.

“And we will, I promise. Come into the lounge, Lestrade should be here shortly,” responded John. Anthea nodded, following John out of the kitchen. Greg was standing next to Sherlock, notepad in hand.

“Ouch. You look a bit bruised there,” commented Lestrade to Anthea.

“I’ll be fine. We have to find Mycroft though,” answered Anthea, brushing aside the comment.

“What happened exactly?” Asked Greg, taking a seat on the lounge. Anthea sat next to him, wringing her hands.

“Mycroft was working in his office, and a young woman and a man came in. They said they had an appointment, and I allowed them in the office. The woman stepped in first and the man grabbed me from behind and pressed a gun to my head. I think her name was Miss Winters, and she spoke of wanting Sherlock, but instead settling for Mycroft. I was knocked unconscious, and I’m afraid I don’t remember much after that,” answered Anthea apologetically.

“It’s okay. Do you know who Miss Winters is?” Queried Lestrade.

“Emily Winters. She was a member of an exclusive club when Mycroft was in university, and he brought a group of friends home with him, and she took particular interest in me whilst there. We spoke for hours about various subjects, and then I never saw her again. She wrote often, but I never responded in kind. I wasn’t interested in a relationship, whereas she wanted to confess her undying love. Soon after that Mycroft graduated and we both went our separate ways, losing contact with her. I thought perhaps it would wane over time, but it appears I was incorrect,” mused Sherlock.

“You’ve had no contact since then?” Asked Lestrade.

“None. Two years later I was consulting with you for the first time, and I thought I saw her in a crowd, but when I glanced back, she wasn’t there. She could have been watching me for the entire time, and I would never have noticed!” Exclaimed Sherlock.

“I’ll get Donovan onto it immediately; perhaps we can find her. I’ll grab Anderson and we’ll go have a look at Mycroft’s office, see if there’s any evidence there. If she’s as smart as she seems, we probably won’t find anything,” said Lestrade, standing up.

“I’m coming with you,” demanded Sherlock.

“Wouldn’t expect it any other way.”

* * *

“This is crazy! There’s nothing here!” Exclaimed Sherlock, frustrated. He shook his head a little, looking frustrated, and John laid a hand on his arm.

“I know, but your brother is resourceful Sherlock. He’s a Holmes. You and your family have this uncanny ability to escape pretty much everything,” remarked John. Sherlock shook his head again and grimaced.

“Not the ability to escape a seizure,” muttered Sherlock. He dropped to his knees, John beside him as his eyes rolled back and he started seizing. Lestrade cleared the room, sending Anderson and Donovan outside with Anthea, and he crouched down beside John.

“How long?” Asked Lestrade softly.

“Coming up on forty seconds,” grunted John, pulling Sherlock into the recovery position in case he threw up.

“I thought he was past this,” commented Greg.

“Yeah, he’s been seizure free for a few weeks. Knew it was too good to last,” answered John. Sherlock’s seizure waned, and his limbs relaxed.

“I’ll help you get him home.”


	2. Found

“Mycroft. Mycroft, my dear Mycroft. You’ve caused me great pain these past few years,” commented Emily.

“I don’t see why I’m even here,” retorted Mycroft, glancing around the stark room. 

“Because you’ve been the one standing in my way, and I’m going to have to rectify that. What’s the one thing Sherlock _really_ loves? More than John? More than _the work_?” Asked Emily, running her hand along Mycroft’s chest. His heart sank in realisation.

_No._

“You, my dear. He is infinitely attached to you, whether he wants to acknowledge it or not, and losing you could send you over the edge,” whispered Emily.

“People will be looking for me!” Exclaimed Mycroft desperately. 

“Correction; _Sherlock_ will be looking for you. I’m not going to make this easy for him Mycroft, you should know that. I want something out of this Mycroft, and I don’t think you’re going to like it all. But I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.” Emily straddled Mycroft’s lap, watching as he struggled, his arms bound tightly behind his back. She bent down close, inhaling deeply before pulling back and kissing him. He coughed and spluttered, trying to wrench her away.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” He exclaimed. She leaned back, grinning at him mischievously.

“Getting exactly what I want.”

* * *

“Sherlock, you need to slow down. It’s been a week already and you’ve barely eaten. I don’t know how you haven’t collapsed yet!” Exclaimed John.

“I don’t have time for this! Every single lead we find takes us straight to a dead end! It doesn’t make sense,” hissed Sherlock, pacing the room.

“Have you even slept?” Asked John. Sherlock shook his head.

“No, I haven't got time. Are you even listening?” Demanded Sherlock.

“No, because as the voice of reason in this bizarre little relationship, I can’t! You need to sit down and eat something substantial. Mrs Hudson has sent up a roast dinner, and I expect you to eat at _least_ half a plate, and have a nap,” ordered John.

“But…”

“And I’m calling Greg and asking him to deal with everything without you for a few hours. If you don’t eat and sleep Sherlock, you’ll end up in hospital. I don’t care how important the work is right now; all I care about is you getting some bloody sleep!” Exclaimed John. Sherlock sat down in the loungeroom, and John brought out a plate of food, handing Sherlock some cutlery.

“Eat.” Sherlock nodded, starting in on the food. John sat down to do the blood glucose level, and Sherlock thrust a finger at him, still plodding through his food.

“I know you don’t like eating, but with your blood sugar levels, it could kill you. If you don’t sleep, it could send you into another status epilepticus, and I can’t fix that. They’d have to take you to hospital and you’d be stuck there for a while. I know you’re worried about Mycroft, and so am I, but you can’t kill yourself over it,” said John softly.

“He’s my brother, John. I have to find him!” Exclaimed Sherlock half heartedly. John laid a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I know that ‘Lock. And we will. I promise.”

* * *

_One lead led to another, before leading to a dead end._

_Always the same way._

_Month after month passed, until it had been over twelve months._

_Sherlock started seizing on a regular basis due to stress, and John started to lose weight with the situation weighing heavily on him._

_Sherlock was admitted to hospital in the last few months as the seizures started to take a toll._

_Anthea started to spend more time with them in an effort to give them more information about Mycroft and his past, but she was of little help._

_Help, however, would come from somewhere entirely different._

* * *

Harry Watson prided herself in her choice of women, and today was no exception. She’d woken up to find herself in the bed of a beautiful blonde, the same one who was standing in front of her naked, drying her hair with a soft blue towel.

“Morning. You sang like a bird last night,” purred the woman.

“You did too. Listen, I would love to stay right now, but I’m going to be running late for work. Could we… could we do this again tonight?” Asked Harry shyly. The blonde sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in to catch Harry’s lower lip in hers, before pulling back to look into Harry’s eyes.

“I’d love to,” whispered the blonde. Harry leaned in and kissed her briefly before getting out of bed and pulling on her clothes.

“God, where is my shirt?” Giggled Harry.

“Over here,” called the girl, tossing Harry’s black shirt across the bed to her.

“Thanks Miles.” Harry pulled on her shirt and tied her hair back before hunting down her black boots.

“I’ll see you tonight then, after eight? I have a business meeting to attend to, and it should be finished by seven,” explained Miles.

“That sounds perfect. I’ll bring dinner and some wine,” replied Harry. Miles kissed her again before ushering the pair of them out the front door.

“I’m heading up the hill and out of town; if you’re heading back to the city, you’ll want to head right, down the street,” explained Miles. Harry climbed into her tiny MAZDA2 and reversed out of the short driveway. She drove down the hill, heading back towards the city, and barely noticed the dirty man swathed in a blanket, walking in the same direction she was going. She was about to drive past him when he stepped out in front of her.

“Shit!” Harry slammed on the brakes, trying to avoid him. She swerved violently before coming to a halt a few metres past him. She got out, fuming, and stormed up to the man.

“What on earth do you think you were doing? You could have been hit!” She exclaimed angrily.

“Please. I need your help,” whispered the man.

“The best help I can get you is to call you an ambulance, you perv,” snarled Harry.

“I just need to get to an address. Please. I can pay you when we get there,” pleaded the man. His voice grated and he double over in a violent coughing fit, and Harry took pity on him.

“Where do you need to get to?” She asked. He gave her the address, and she opened up the back passenger side door, ushering him in.

“It’ll take about fifteen minutes,” added Harry. The man slumped against the rear door awkwardly, clearly exhausted, and Harry took off down the street, clearly concerned by her extra cargo.

Eleven minutes later, she pulled up in front of the address, and turned off the ignition.

“Sir? We’re here,” called Harry. He didn’t stir, and Harry sighed. She got out of the car, slamming the door, and headed to the front door of the house, knocking on the door. A little older lady answered.

“Can I help you dear?” She asked politely.

“I’ve got a man in my car, said he’s looking for the occupants of 221B. Could you get them down here please?” Harry asked.

“Of course. Wait here.” The little lady closed the door, and Harry waited outside, tapping her foot impatiently. She heard hurried footsteps, and then John Watson opened the door, the little lady behind him.

“Harry? What on earth are you doing here?” Asked John.

“There’s a man in my car; I nearly hit him this morning, and he asked me to bring him h…” Harry trailed off as John shot over to her car, pulling open the passenger door. 

“Mrs Hudson! Call Greg, get him to order us an ambulance, and bring me my phone!” Yelled John. Harry stepped to the side, wondering what on earth was going on. John ignored her, and gently eased the man out of Harry’s car.

“Mycroft? Mycroft, can you hear me?” Asked John, concerned. A second pair of hands helped get Mycroft’s lanky frame out of the car, and John looked up to see Greg and Molly helping him.

“Help me get the blanket off; I need to assess his injuries. How long until the paramedics get here?” Asked John, distracted. Greg stood aside, allowing Molly in to help John.

“They should be here in ten… Christ.” John peeled back the blanket, revealing a very thin, malnourished Mycroft, and two babies, cradled against his chest. Mrs Hudson appeared with John’s phone, and gasped as she laid eyes on the sight in front of her.

“Molly, call Christian Shaw, let him know I need a full trauma team and paediatric team on standby; I don’t care if he’s sleeping or not on call! Then get into contact with Mark Wainwright and get an update on Sherlock; tell him it’s an emergency,” explained John. He found his medi-kit thrust into his hands moments later, Mrs Hudson clutching blankets in her hands, desperate to help. He picked up the tiny girl first; she was clearly malnourished and underweight, suffering from a serious fever, and her lungs seemed underdeveloped. John took a blanket from Mrs Hudson, and swathed the child in it before handing her to Greg. He looked at the tiny boy and his jaundice skin, and his heart dropped. He picked him up, holding him close as he listened to his heart, noting similar symptoms as the other child, and wondering what exactly Mycroft had been through. He swaddled the little boy and passed him to Mrs Hudson before leaning over to examine Mycroft. The ambulance pulled up nearby, and two paramedics climbed out, a neonatal ambulance not far behind.

“Christ, is this Mycroft Holmes?” Asked one.

“Yes. We’ll be going to Bart’s; I’ve already got a trauma and paediatric team assembled,” ordered John. The paramedics nodded as the neonatal team climbed out of their vehicle, taking the twins from Greg and Mrs Hudson. John followed Mycroft into the ambulance, and climbed in with them, silencing them with a Holmesian-style glare. Greg nodded once to John before ushering Molly away. John glanced at his sister as the door closed, then looked down at the emaciated body before him.

“Christ Mycroft, what did you get yourself into?”


	3. Twins

“He’s in surgery Sherlock, but he’s alive. He’s alive,” comforted John, sitting on the bed behind Sherlock’s lanky frame and cradling him close. Sherlock was suffering the after effects of a hypo, and was emotionally wrought after finding out his brother was alive, tears flooding his face. After a few minutes he fell asleep, clutching John close. John didn’t mind, the past fourteen months having taken a serious toll on their relationship. He ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair, enjoying the feel of finally holding his partner. He glanced up to see Doctor Christian Shaw standing in the doorway, stethoscope around his neck.

“How is the surgery going?” Asked John quietly. Christian walked in and took the seat next to Sherlock’s bed.

“It’s getting there. He’s severely dehydrated, malnourished, anaemic, and we’re having to rebreak a few of his bones as they’ve been broken before, and not healed correctly. He’s also covered in severe lacerations, most of which are being attended to while he’s under. All his levels are below baseline, and he’s in for an incredibly long hospital stay,” explained Christian.

“What about the two babies?” Asked John softly, still playing with Sherlock’s hair.

“Both have had blood tests and a full work-up; we also ran a paternity test at the same time. It appears that they’re both Mycroft’s. The paediatrician’s are diagnosing both with FTT, and you could be looking at long term difficulties with both of them. The little boy’s liver is struggling, but we hope, with better nutrition and some medication, that he may improve. The girl has got some weakened lung function, and is suffering from the same high fever her brother has, but should improve on oxygen and antibiotics, as well as a dose of steroids to help her lungs,” answered Christian.

“FTT.. Oh. Failure To Thrive. Thank you for looking after him. I didn’t want him going to some stranger, and I knew he trusted you, and…” Christian raised a hand, silencing John.

“It’s not a problem. The ICU ward you and Sherlock stayed in two years ago has been refurbished and reopened thanks to a donation from Mycroft, and we’ll be moving him into one of the family sized rooms for the duration of his stay. There is a small room connected to Mycroft’s room that serves as a bedroom for any family wishing to stay, and NICU is just down the hall. We wanted somewhere we can move Sherlock to as well, as he’s been terrorising the staff down here,” added Christian, grinning.

“Please tell me you’ve got better vetting for your nurses since last time,” pleaded John.

“This time around, working the ICU floor, is Angela, William, Eleanor and Quentin. All have been through strict and rigorous training, as well as a very thorough background check to ensure our patients safety, especially as we’ve now become the chosen specialist centre for most high profile politicians. I think you’ll find them quite nice. We’ll be moving Sherlock in an hour if you’d like to hang around?” Asked Christian.

“If you don’t mind, I’d love to. What’s Sherlock’s current status? When I left him here two months ago, he was seizing almost constantly, and you were at a loss of what to do,” reminded John.

“We found a new drug that was originally designed to treat depression, and was found to actually treat seizures better than it did depression. We moved Sherlock onto a trial of it, and he’s responded really well. The only problem we’re having now is the blowouts in his blood sugar,” answered Doctor Mark Wainwright, joining the little conversation. He pulled up a chair next to Christian as Doctor Hannah Parker entered the room.

“John! You’re looking a little thinner than you last were. Are you doing okay?” Asked Hannah, pulling a blood-glucose meter out of her pocket and taking one of Sherlock’s fingers, pricking it carefully.

“I’d be better if you were about to tell me that Sherlock’s levels are starting to balance out, and I can take him home,” answered John. Hannah shook her head as the meter beeped.

“Damn. Sorry John. Until I can work out why he’s fluctuating so badly between up and down, I need him here. I also wanted to let you know that Doctor Marsden is on his way down. He was Sherlock’s orthopaedic surgeon when he was last here, and has been helping out with Mycroft,” added Hannah. She disappeared out of the room briefly, reappearing with a small vial of insulin.

“Here we go again,” she muttered.

“I feel like you’ve all taken particular interest and care in this case. Any reason why?” Asked John.

“Well, we spent a lot of time with you and the Holmes brothers when Sherlock was last here, and Hannah and Mark have been working together to try and solve both the seizures and the hypos. Getting the two of you through last time was a serious achievement, especially with two rogue nurses on our hands, and having Mycroft in, we’d really like to make sure that he’s getting the best of care,” explained Christian. A young nurse knocked at the door, and John glanced up warily, clutching Sherlock tighter.

“Dr Shaw? Mr Holmes is being moved from surgical to our ICU floor. Dr Marsden thought you should know,” she said politely.

“John, this is Angela, one of the specialist nurses who will be assigned to the Holmes brothers during their stay. Angela, we’re due to move Sherlock up to the fifth floor; could you help us?” Asked Christian. She nodded, and John climbed off the bed slowly, grasping for a chair as he felt his legs go from underneath him. Hannah caught him and lowered him gently onto the chair, steadying him. Christian vaulted around the bed to drop down in front of John. 

“Woah there John. Are you alright?” Asked Hannah, concerned. John leaned against her heavily, feeling his head spin, the nausea rising in his throat. He felt an emesis bowl shoved under his chin, and his stomach revolted, ejecting the last vestiges of his breakfast.

“Thanks Angela. Listen, can we see about getting a third bed into the Holmes room? I’d like John to be monitored for a while, make sure he’s hydrated,” said Christian, taking John’s hand in his.

“I’m fine,” rasped John.

“You’re not fine, you look like you’re about to pass out,” argued Hannah. John nodded, not sure if he would be able to stand. A wheelchair appeared courtesy of Mark, and Hannah and Christian moved him into it carefully. He was given a new emesis bowl, and Christian wheeled him to the lift, Hannah and Mark staying behind with Angela to unhook Sherlock.

“How have you been sleeping?” Asked Christian, pushing John inside the lift and pressing the button for level five.

“Haven’t,” groaned John, letting his head fall back.

“I’d like to put you on a drip and run a few blood tests, make sure everything is okay. And you can get some sleep, knowing that both Mycroft and Sherlock are okay,” reassured Christian. The lift stopped at the fifth floor, doors opening smoothly, and Christian wheeled John down the corridor to the end room. Mycroft’s bed was to the left, monitors and drips hooked up to the emaciated body, nourishing it slowly. Two empty beds remained, one next to Mycroft, the other directly across from him. The remaining corner had a low table and two sofas in front of a TV, a relaxing space.The room was clearly set up for a much longer stay than ordinarily anticipated, and had a warm, comforting feel to it. A male nurse joint John and Christian, and Christian crouched down in front of John.

“This is Quentin, and he’s going to look after you while we settle Sherlock, okay?” John nodded wearily, and allowed Christian and Quentin to help him into the bed. John relaxed against the soft bedding, allowing Quentin to change him into a pair of pyjamas. He drifted off to sleep, the sounds of the hospital lulling him under.

* * *

“John. John, wake up.” John shot upright and Sherlock stumbled back, clearly not anticipating such a reaction.

“Whats wrong?” Muttered John.

“Mycroft is awake. He’s asking for you,” sulked Sherlock. John lay back for a moment, trying to get his bearings before sitting up and sliding off the bed. He padded across the room to Mycroft’s bed and took a seat next to him.

“How are you feeling?” Asked John quietly. Sherlock stalked across the room and flung himself into a seat opposite John.

“How did I get here?” Rasped Mycroft.

“My sister found you walking down a village road, a few miles from Baker Street,” answered John.

“Wh… where are the twins?” Asked Mycroft. He tried to push himself up, and John carefully laid a hand on his chest, pressing him back down against the bed.

“Rest easy. They’re in NICU, about ten metres down the hall, being very well cared for,” reassured John.

“They’re mine,” replied Mycroft quietly. John nodded, and Sherlock perked up a little, not knowing the new information.

“They are. Do you remember what happened?” Asked John. Mycroft shook his head.

“I remember some of what happened, but not a lot,” admitted Mycroft.

“That’s okay. I’ll get Greg in to take some notes. What do you remember?” Asked John.

“Their names.”

“Whose names?” Asked John, confused.

“The twins. They’ve got names John, they had to have names. I couldn’t let them die without names, and I didn’t know if we were going to make it out alive,” whispered Mycroft.

“Okay. I’ll take them down and let NICU know. What are their names?” Asked John softly.

“Oliver Bentley and Charlotte Lilly.” Mycroft stopped, face paling, and John recognised the signs. He grabbed an emesis bowl off the shelf and shoved it under Mycroft’s chin, helping him sit up.

“Sherlock, either grab a nurse or hit the call button,” said John sharply. Sherlock stood up, swaying, and hit the call button before collapsing on the floor.

“Bloody hell. I need some help in here!”


	4. Breakdown

“Okay, between the three of you, we ought to be able to keep this hospital in business for a very long time. Let’s get a quick rundown of what we’re dealing with. Tim, you go first,” ordered Christian. Tim glanced at Mycroft before shuffling through his notes.

“You suffered at least twelve broken bones that we could count from past injuries, and seven had to be rebroken and reset during surgery, hence the amount of pain you are currently in. Most were in your legs, but you did have two in your left arm that could cause you some minor pain later on,” explained Tim. He glanced at Christian, who nodded for him to sit, and indicated to Mark that he was next.

“We did find evidence to a head injury, and at the moment, it seems fairly stable. We will continue monitoring it, just to be sure. Sherlock, your injury from eighteen months ago seems to be handling well, and the medication we’ve put you on seems to be managing your seizures well. I’ll check in with you occasionally to see how you’re doing,” reassured Mark. Hannah took the floor next.

“I’ve been consulting with a nutritionist on my team, who is coming up with the best way to get you nourished and back into good health. Your pancreas seems to be doing well, and we’re giving you a little extra glucose each day to help boost your energy levels. Sherlock on the other hand, we are struggling to keep your blood glucose level at something reasonable. Your body is fluctuating badly, hence the severe ups and downs you’re experiencing. We will be looking at some new treatment soon, but for now, we’re trying to get you somewhere stable,” clarified Hannah.

“And John, you’re suffering from exhaustion, and a moderate case of anaemia. We’re going to keep you in for a few days, get you back into shape to handle these two,” grinned Christian.

“Oliver and Charlotte. How are they doing?” Rasped Mycroft wearily.

“For what they’ve been through, they’re doing pretty well. I’m Doctor Sophie Whittington, head of the NICU, and I’ve been instructed by the government to make sure that they both get the best treatment available, and they are both under my specialist care. In a few days we should be able to bring them to se…”

“No. I need my lawyer and a notary, to draw up some documents for me. Please. Can someone organise that?” Pleaded Mycroft.

“I’ll handle it for you Mycroft. We should have someone here in a few hours. We have a notary onsite; do you have the number for your lawyer?” Asked Christian. Mycroft shook his head.

“Ask Anthea,” he slurred, drifting off to sleep. John pulled out his own mobile, passing the device to Christian.

“Anthea was his PA. The number should be in there. While you’ve got my phone, could you ring Greg as well please? We’ll eventually need him down here to get Mycroft’s statement,” asked John. He returned to his own bed, and Sherlock joined him, curling around him like a starfish. Christian indicated for the team to leave and dimmed the lights, allowing the two Holmes brothers and John Watson to get some much needed rest.

_God knows they needed it._

* * *

“John? Mycroft’s lawyer is here, and he wants to talk to you,” said Angela’s soft voice, trickling through John’s groggy sleep state. John nodded, pulling himself away from Sherlock, and pulled on a dressing gown, slipping his feet into some slippers, feeling a little more rested.

“Mycroft? What’s wrong?” Asked John groggily.

“I need you to do something for me,” uttered Mycroft.

“What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to take care of Oliver and Charlotte if something happens to me, while I’m here in hospital, and possibly when I come home. I need you and Sherlock to become their guardians, to look after them. I don’t know if I’ll be capable of this John, and I need to know that they’ll be safe. Please,” pleaded Mycroft.

“You might pull out of this fine Mycroft, you don’t know,” responded John.

“I don’t know if I will John. These two children represent one of the worst things to happen to me, and I’ve been tortured in Iran. I don’t know if I can do this John, and I want them to be with two people who will love them. Please John,” begged Mycroft. John looked at Mycroft, at the tears streaming down his face, and realised just how much this meant to Mycroft. He nodded carefully.

“I don’t know about Sherlock, but yes. I’ll do it. You can change your mind at any point Mycroft,” said John gently. The lawyer handed John a slab of paperwork, and the notary watched carefully as John signed the sheets meticulously.

“Sherlock will come around. He loves you John,” breathed Mycroft. He was clearly tiring again, and drifted off to sleep. John handed the paperwork back to the lawyer, who tucked it securely into his briefcase.

“Official papers will be delivered to you in seven days, and Mr Holmes has arranged with your landlady for renovations to begin at Baker Street.” The lawyer snapped his briefcase closed and stepped out, the notary not far behind him. John sighed, the gravity of the situation finally hitting him, and sat down next to Sherlock, running a hand through his dark locks.

“We can do this ‘Lock.”

* * *

When Sherlock woke up, he started to analyse the situation he was in. He knew he’d wet himself, that was for sure, and his limbs felt like he’d run for miles.

“J…J…” His tongue disobeyed obvious commands to say John’s name, and he exhaled noisily through his nose. He felt his bowels release, and he groaned, feeling the muscles tense up again, stretching him taut like a violin bow. He’d never been aware for a seizure before, and he’d previously been frustrated by that, wishing for the chance to observe the science behind his seizures. 

 _Now that he could actively remember one, he wished he could forget._  

Muscles screamed as his lungs burned for air, eyes rolling wildly in his head, teeth clattering madly. He felt his body being moved into a recovery position, pillows stuffed behind his back, and he could feel himself being deprived of oxygen, the thought of dying becoming a very real possibility. After what seemed like an eternity, his muscles relaxed, lungs inhaled desperately needed oxygen, and he felt his mouth being dabbed clean with a soft cloth. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift off, beyond exhaustion.

_There was always time to ask questions._

* * *

“John, we’re going to take Sherlock up for a few scans and take bloods. We think the new medication Mark put him on has screwed up his pancreatic functions, and now the changing insulin has set of status epilepticus. We’ll bring him back as soon as possible,” reassured Hannah’s soft voice. John nodded, hands steepled in front of him, trying to stay calm as the world around him fell apart. Greg and Molly stood in the doorway, Molly looking distraught, Greg looking serious.

“Oh John,” whispered Molly. 

_John finally snapped._

“Don’t ‘oh John’ me! I am barely holding on, and neither of you have been _any_ fucking help the past fourteen months, and now I’m the sole caregiver for two children who are the result of some bloody _bitch_ taking out some sort of frustrations on Mycroft! I can’t take this chaos anymore! _No one can tell me what’s going on anymore_!!” Screamed John. Christian heard the commotion from down the hall and sprinted towards the Holmes Watson room, Eleanor and William behind him, Christian calling for sedation as he ran. John was to the point of throwing things around the room, tossing his pillows and blankets angrily, before moving onto more solid items. His IV pole catapulted across the room to clock Mycroft in the chest, and his chair caught Molly in the legs, causing her to hit the floor, hard. William and Christian tackled John to the floor while Eleanor plunged the sedation into John’s leg, before reaching across to hit the call button. Angela stuck her head in moments later.

“Get the team in here, we’ve got a problem,” exclaimed Christian, helping William wrestle a nearly unconscious John into bed. Angela nodded and vanished, returning seconds later with another trauma team member, Doctor Eve Kensington, and Tim. Eve promptly moved to Mycroft’s bed, assessing the situation, and Tim kneeled down to check Molly, who was still looking a bit dazed.

“Tim?” Asked Christian, still struggling with John, who was fighting the sedation, the base soldier in him becoming combative. 

“She’s probably got a mild concussion, bruising to the legs. I don’t think they’re broken, but they will hurt for the next couple of days. What the hell happened?” Responded Tim. Christian’s response was cut off by Eve hitting the code button before starting CPR on Mycroft. Angela reappeared in the doorway, dragging the defibrillator behind her. Tim abandoned Molly on the floor and joined Eve with Mycroft, stripping back the blankets and lowering the bed head.

“Eve, talk to me!” Called Christian.

“He’s in V-Fib!” Christian glanced at William, who nodded. Christian glanced at the time as Eve stepped back from Mycroft.

“Clear!” Called Tim. He pressed the paddles to Mycroft’s chest, and his chest lifted briefly before slumping back on the bed.

“Still in V-Fib,” announced Christian, running the code. Eve resumed her CPR while waiting for the defib to charge again, doing the job that Mycroft’s heart was struggling to do.

“Clear!” The charge travelled through Mycroft, and Eve checked the monitors.

“Sinus rhythm restored,” she exhaled. Molly allowed herself to be pulled up by Greg, his strong arms wrapping around her.

“He could have been on my table next,” she whimpered. Greg pulled her closer, inhaling her sweet smell. 

“He’s a Holmes. I’m pretty sure they don’t die.”

* * *

“Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?” Asked Eleanor softly. Sherlock moaned as the light flooded his senses, and Eleanor reached across, dimming the lights a little.

“Of course I can hear. I’ve got ears. Are you daft?” Muttered Sherlock.

“Good to see you’re back in your senses a little. Do you know what happened?” Asked Eleanor.

“Seizure. Three, I think, possibly four,” replied Sherlock.

“Try seven. We think it might have been more, but someone took their monitoring leads off earlier, and we’re not entirely sure,” responded Eleanor. Sherlock shrugged, and Eleanor sighed.

“Hi Sherlock, how are you feeling?” Asked Hannah’s soft voice.

“Tired. Can I sleep yet, or are you all going to continue to ask pointless questions?” Answered Sherlock testily.

“Mark and I would like to talk to you first. Are you up for that?” Asked Hannah. Sherlock nodded, and allowed Eleanor to elevate his bed head, allowing him to see both Hannah and Mark. Their faces were serious.

_Nothing life-threatening, or they would have made sure John was here with me._

_If it was Mycroft, Christian would be here._

_If it was John, Greg and Molly would be here._

_What could it..._

_The medication!_

“No more medication then,” announced Sherlock.

“How…?” Started Hannah.

“Yes Sherlock. No more medication. The tablets we were giving you were slowing down your seizure rate, but were wreaking havoc on your pancreas and blood sugar levels. You were experiencing hypos and hypers in the same minute, your body unable to regulate anything. You suffered a prolonged seizure earlier, and when we took you for blood tests, we found your sugar levels through the roof. You could have died, and we dosed you up on enough insulin to kill a horse,” remarked Mark.

“I remember the last seizure, and how frightening it was. I was terrified because I couldn’t call John, my mouth wouldn’t work. Then every single muscle tightened up, and I couldn’t breath, and I wondered if that would be the moment I died,” mused Sherlock quietly.

“You were aware?” 

“Of course. I hope to never have that experience again,” responded Sherlock. Mark nodded.

“I hope you never have to. But the good news is, we’ve taken you off the medication, and we’re just stabilising the diabetes for now. Once it’s stable, we’ll see how you’re handling the seizures, and handle things from there,” answered Mark.

“Good. Where is John? I thought he would have been here with me,” pouted Sherlock.

“He’s been sedated,” announced Eve, joining the little group.

“What? Why on earth would you do that?” Asked Sherlock, aghast.

“Because he suffered a mental breakdown with all the stress he’s been through,” answered Eve, checking Sherlock’s chart.

“You’re lying. John is the strongest person I know!” Exclaimed Sherlock.

“He may very well be, but he’s been supporting you for nearly fifteen months while you ran yourself ragged looking for your brother. I think he’s entitled to a little ‘freakout’,” responded Eve calmly.

“What set him off? What did he do?” Demanded Sherlock.

“You were in status, and we took you off for bloods and scans, and he flipped. He threw things across the room, hitting your brother, your friend Molly, and had to be sedated for the safety of others. He won’t stay sedated forever, but we are trying to give him some time to sleep and recover. We’ll start weaning him off sedation tomorrow afternoon. Your brother though, he’s not doing well at the moment,” added Eve.

“What’s wrong with My?”

“We’ve had to insert a temporary pacemaker to help his heart beat; occasionally it would skip a few beats, and it’s tiring your brother out. I’ll be talking to the cardiac specialist later to find out how permanent he thinks this may become. I’ll keep you informed as best I can,” promised Eve. Sherlock nodded, pulling the blankets up.

“I’m tired. Do you think I may be able to sleep now?” Asked Sherlock wearily. Hannah nodded.

“Of course. Angela or I will be in soon to check your blood glucose, but otherwise, yes. You may sleep Sherlock.” Sherlock felt his lids droop, his breathing evening out, and he drifted off to sleep.


	5. Recount

_“Mycroft. My. My. Mycroft.”_

_Warm hands tickled their way up his thighs, closer to the prize, and he squirmed, clearly uncomfortable._

_“Our child will be beautiful.”_

_Nimble fingers pulled open his shirt, leaving him naked on the bed, tied to the corner posts._

_“You will probably detest them.”_

_Fingernails scraped their way down his stomach as he inhaled desperately._

_“But I will at least have taken something from you.”_

* * *

Mycroft came out of the sedation screaming, his voice hoarse, lungs aching, mouth dry. He fought the IV lines and heart monitors holding him down in bed, desperate to be free, mind still trapped in what had happened whilst kidnapped. 

Strangely enough, Sherlock was by his side, calmly settling him down, reassuring him. 

“My. You’re okay. This is just an IV line, rehydrating you, and these nodes are monitoring your heart. You aren’t tied down. I promise,” said Sherlock firmly. Mycroft gripped Sherlock’s hand as tightly as he could, willing him to stay as his racing heart calmed down. Sherlock sat down carefully, running a gentle hand through Mycroft’s hair. Slowly and surely his breathing evened out, regaining control of himself.

“What happened?” Asked Sherlock.

“`Lock, I really don’t want to tell this story twice. Could you call Greg and ask him to come in please?” Asked Mycroft quietly. Sherlock nodded, and pulled away from Mycroft, walking to the main doorway.

“Angela? Could you perhaps ring our friend Greg and ask him to come in please? Tell him it’s a work matter,” called Sherlock.

“Not your secretary Sherlock!” Replied Angela, grinning. She picked up the phone anyway, dialling the requested number.

“Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mr Holmes has requested you come in for a work visit. Can I tell him to expect you?” Angela asked. She smiled at Greg’s response, before farewelling him and hanging up the line. She stood up, heading for Sherlock’s room.

“Sherlock, he’ll be here in an hour. I’ll do your blood glucose check now, and get Dr Shaw and Dr Kensington to do their rounds a little earlier for you,” announced Angela. She pulled a meter from her pocket and pricked the tip of Sherlock’s finger. He grimaced as the blood welled up, and Angela dabbed it onto the strip before inserting it into the meter.

“4.1. We’ll give you some lunch, but it seems to be stabilising a little better. That’s good news. I’ll talk to Dr Shaw and Kensington, and see about speeding up their rounds.” Sherlock nodded, and glanced over at John’s still figure.

“How is he doing?” Asked Sherlock softly.

“The sedation should have worn off by now; he’s just sleeping. He’ll be okay Sherlock, don’t worry,” said Angela. She disappeared out of the room, leaving Sherlock with his thoughts, wondering who had taken his older sibling from him, and why on earth they let him go. He looked up as Christian and Eve entered the room.

“How are you feeling Mycroft?” Asked Eve, walking over to Mycroft’s bed. He flinched as she touched him, and she stepped back, confused.

“Mycroft? What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“Please. Leave me be,” he pleaded, voice clearly terrified. Eve stepped forward again, adjusting his heart monitors, ignoring the hint of fear that was clearly obvious.

“I need to do this Mycroft, otherwise we can’t monitor your heart rate,” answered Eve matter-of-factly.

“No, no, please, I don’t want this,” begged Mycroft, his voice cracking.

“Leave him alone!” Ordered Sherlock.

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying! He needs to be properly treated, and we can give him that!” Exclaimed Eve. Sherlock stood up and advanced on her, making use of his incredible height.

“Back away from my brother. Right now,” commanded Sherlock. Eve glanced up at him, defiant.

“No. _I_ am the treating medical doctor on his case, and _I_ deem you to be a problem, standing in the way of your brother’s healing and treatment! Step back before I have you sedated!” Yelled Eve. Christian stepped up, pushing Sherlock back in the direction of his bed.

“Sherlock, John has woken up. Can you watch him please? Eve, get out,” ordered Christian. She looked at him, bewildered.

“What?”

“Get out! Now!” Eve scuttled from the room, and Christian stood next to Mycroft, watching his monitors carefully.

“Slow your breathing down for me Mycroft. Come on, slow, deep breaths. I’m going to put some oxygen on you, just let it do its job,” said Christian gently. Mycroft inhaled deeply, releasing the breath slowly, trying to calm down. Lestrade appeared in the doorway, watching the scene unfold.

“Is everything okay?” He asked, voice low and gravelly.

“Can you organise security for this room please? Let Angela and Eleanor know that they won’t be nursing this room at the moment, and let them know that I’ll speak to them shortly?” Asked Christian, eyes still on Mycroft.

“Of course. I’ll be back in a moment.” Sherlock sat next to John, holding his hand tightly in his own, watching on, concerned. Christian watched as Mycroft’s heart rate declined, settling back into a resting pace. Lestrade returned, face serious, and Christian stepped back.

“I assume you’re here to conduct an interview with Mycroft. If you are, I would like to stay, if that is alright with both of you, to monitor Mycroft’s vitals,” requested Christian. Mycroft nodded, and Lestrade entered the room, pulling up a chair. Sherlock and John made their way across to Sherlock’s bed, sitting on it, close enough to hear the interview, but far enough away to not impede it.

“Her name is Emily Winters. She has other people working with her, but I do not know their names. She’s angry about something that happened in our past, but as of yet, I’m not sure what. I don’t know where I was taken.”

_Deep breath._

“She was determined to carry my child, and she spent an entire month raping me. If that’s what you call it. I didn’t want it.”

_Heart rate increasing._

“Overjoyed. She seemed almost ecstatic when she came back one day. Said it was twins.”

_Blood pressure rising._

“She liked to beat me. Would forget to leave food. Sometimes left water. Always made sure I was tied up proper. She’d leave a newspaper everyday so I knew the date.”

_Inhale._

“The day she went into labour, she delivered the twins in the same room I was being kept in, some man helping her. They were born November eleventh.”

_Exhale._

“She started coming in less and less. She said she’d met someone. Was sleeping with them. She abandoned the twins in the room with me. Tied me up to a post in the corner, enough chain so I could move a metre, reach a baby, change them, feed them.”

_Hands tremble._

“The time started to get longer. I started to count the days when she wouldn’t show up. I had a tiny window, and when it was dark, I would scratch a mark in the wall.”

_Voice cracks._

“She forgot to tie me up one day. I knew I had to get out. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, the twins were sick, and it was my only chance to get out. I wrapped them as best I could in the only blanket I had, and slipped out when I heard the shower running. I don’t know what happened next, just being here.”

_Tears fall._

“I didn’t know if I would make it out alive,” whispered Mycroft, finally breaking down, great gasping sobs wracking his exhausted and injured body. Sherlock stood up and crossed the space between himself and his brother, pulling him close.

“It’s okay My. You’re safe,” reassured Sherlock. Mycroft clutched him desperately, reluctant to let him go, and Sherlock glanced at John.

“John, I fear I may be in a little trouble,” said Sherlock softly. Christian stood up, concerned.

“What sort of trouble Sherlock?” Asked Christian. Sherlock’s hands started to quiver, the tremors travelling up his arms quickly.

“Mycroft, let him go! Greg, go find William or Quentin, we’ll need a loading dose of Lorazepam. John, pass me that pillow,” ordered Christian, watching as Sherlock’s body tensed, and he fell sideways. John knelt on the floor next to his partner and glanced at Christian.

“Please tell me we can fix this. Please.”


	6. Puzzle

John steepled his hands in front of his face, trying to calm himself for just a moment. Sherlock was in the bed across from him, sleeping off the after effects of a seizure, and Mycroft was in the other, sedated after having to retell his ordeal to Lestrade. Greg had left shortly after, face white as a sheet, mumbling something about Holmes problems. 

“John?” Asked Christian softly. John glanced up, unaware that he’d even walked into the room.

“Mm?”

“John, I think you’re experiencing a kind of mental breakdown. Is there someone I can call for you? A next of kin?” Asked Christian gently. John shook his head.

“Sherlock became my next of kin the day before Mycroft disappeared, and I became his,” John answered disjointedly. 

“It’s not in Sherlock’s notes,” frowned Christian, pulling the chart from the end of Sherlock’s bed.

“It wouldn’t be. It was all rather sudden; we signed the paperwork on the Monday, Sherlock selected rings on a Tuesday, and then we had a small officiated ceremony on Wednesday, and Thursday afternoon we found out Mycroft was missing,” answered John, taking great interest in a loose thread on the blanket covering his legs.

“Shit John; you and Sherlock were newly-weds when his world, and yours, came crashing down. You haven’t even had a proper honeymoon!” Exclaimed Christian. John shook his head.

“Why would we ever do anything proper? This is Sherlock Holmes we’re talking about; never does anything proper, does he,” stated John blandly. Christian opened his mouth to speak, and was interrupted by the head of NICU standing in the doorway, face grave.

“John?” Queried Sophie gently. John glanced at her and looked back down at the blanket.

“They’re gone, aren’t they,” he stated softly. Sophie entered the room and took a seat next to John, glancing at Christian.

“Yes John. Unfortunately they lost their fight an hour ago, and their hearts gave up. I’m so sorry for your loss John, and I’ve got a counsellor available if you’d like to talk, and I’ll give you my pager number in case you need it, or if you’d like to ask any questions,” offered Sophie. John nodded, drawing his knees to his chest, letting silent tears fall down his cheeks. Sophie glanced at Christian again, who indicated for her to leave. She left and Christian stood up, sitting on the edge of John’s bed.

“Joh, you should speak to the counsellor,” advised Christian. John took a deep shuddering breath before shaking his head.

“No. No, I shouldn’t even feel like this. I hadn’t even really met them yet, I’ve only just become guardian to them. How can I be so upset over this?” Exclaimed John, wiping away angry tears.

“Because you’re a healer mate, a doctor, and a loss of life affects you just as much as it affects the rest of us.” Christian stood up, ready to allow John some space. “If you need me, get William or Quentin to page me. I’ll get down here as quick as I can,” promised Christian. John nodded, rolling over and curling up in the foetal position. He didn’t hear Christian leave, absorbed within his own mind, the loss of two infants weighing on him heavily.

He didn't hear Sherlock when he woke up and padded across the room. He joined John in his bed, snuggling close and inhaling his comforting smell. He pulled back when he realised John was crying and looked at him, confused. 

“John? Why are you crying?” Asked Sherlock, a gentle thumb swiping away a few of the tears. John gasped for air and rolled over to face Sherlock, clutching him close. Sherlock looked alarmed but held him close, rubbing his back slowly, trying to calm him down. Quentin entered the room to take obs, and noticed the change in John.

“Sherlock, is he okay?” Asked Quentin.

“I don’t know. He appears to be… broken. I’m unsure of what to do,” admitted Sherlock. Quentin smiled a little.

“It’s okay. Has John explained anything that happened earlier?” Asked Quentin. Sherlock shook his head.

“No, and I’m too fuzzy to try and deduce it,” growled Sherlock. 

“He found out Charlotte and Oliver passed away a few hours ago,” explained Quentin gently.

“But why would John care?” Pressed Sherlock.

“Because a few days ago he signed paperwork declaring both of you the guardian’s of those two children,” sighed Mycroft from the other side of the room. Sherlock’s face lit up in understanding, and he pulled John closer.

“Oh John. I am sorry,” whispered Sherlock. John tried to stifle the sobs, frustrated that he couldn’t calm down. Sherlock just held him, an anchor in a storm, soothing him, and waited for John to fall asleep. He did eventually, face tear-stained, breath hitching occasionally, Sherlock rubbing his back gently. Once he realised John was asleep, he pulled himself away and got out of bed, covering John in the blanket.

“What did you do to her Mycroft?” Asked Sherlock, crossing the room to sit next to him.

“I did nothing! It was _you_ who refused her, and slept with her when you were high!” Exclaimed Mycroft.

“I di.. wait. What?” Asked Sherlock.

“I had just finished my final year of university, and you came to visit, and Henrik bought some of his stash with him. You were high as a kite when Emily and her friends came over to see us, and she flirted with you, asking if you wanted it, and you decided to give it to her, despite the fact that you had clearly identified as asexual at that point, and you had denied her your company for three years previously!” Declared Mycroft. Sherlock paled visibly, trying to remember what had happened, but kept coming up blank.

“I don’t remember that,” admitted Sherlock.

“Of course you wouldn’t; you were hospitalised two days later for a serious overdose. This is your fault Sherlock, and you need to fix it,” admonished Mycroft. Sherlock nodded, and glanced over at John.

“I will fix it; I promise.”

* * *

“I need everything you have on Emily Winters and whoever is working for her no matter how old the information. I want to create a timeline, work out what we know,” ordered Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes, I can ask DI Lestrade, but I don’t think he’ll bring it. Don’t you think you should at least sit down? I really need to check your blood glucose,” explained Eleanor patiently. 

“I don’t have time for that!” Argued Sherlock, pacing the room impatiently. Christian and Hannah entered the room, Quentin having summoned them moments earlier.

“Sherlock, sit down,” ordered Hannah. Sherlock huffed before taking a seat, extending a slim hand toward Hannah. She grinned and waved Eleanor out of the room, checking his levels. “6.2. Looking pretty good for you Sherlock. Have you had breakfast?” Sherlock nodded, still distracted. William popped his head in the door.

“Greg said he’ll bring the files over for you now,” called William.

“Excellent. Mycroft, does Anthea have any information on her?”

“No. I didn’t keep in touch with anyone from university that I didn’t feel pertinent to my career. Henrik died a year ago, I can tell you that much, and three months after our graduation, Emily disappeared from everyone’s lives. That would have been… four months after that party?” Mused Mycroft.

“Why would she disappear? What changed?” Pondered Sherlock. He sat cross-legged on his bed, hands steepled, deep in thought. He stayed that way for an hour, only coming out of it when Greg walked into the room, several files in his arms.

“Sherlock, I’ve brought those files for you. What on earth do you need them for?” Asked Greg, dumping them onto Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock looked at Greg, a mani grin across his face.

“I’ve got an idea.”


	7. Truth

Mycroft rolled over in bed, watching as Sherlock spread the papers across the low coffee table in the corner.

“What are you looking for?” Asked Mycroft wearily.

“Anything to tell me what’s going on. I have a theory but no proof,” mused Sherlock, flipping through the papers. Lestrade watched on in wonder, sitting next to John while Sherlock worked his magic. He spread the papers out carefully, pursuing each detail of the file, committing it to memory whilst formulating a picture of the woman who was hell bent on destroying the Holmes boys lives. Whilst he was doing this Quentin popped his head in.

“John? You’ve got a visitor.” John perked up, wondering who it was. He was surprised to see Harry walk tentatively into the room.

“John? Are you okay? I went to see you, and that woman at your house said you were in hospital…” Harry trailed off as she realised what Sherlock was looking at. He glanced at her.

“Harry?”

“Why have you got photos of Miles on that table?”

“You know this woman?” Demanded Sherlock. Harry blushed a crimson red and nodded.

“We’ve… we’ve been dating,” admitted Harry.

“You’ve been shagging,” replied Sherlock bluntly.

“Perhaps.”

“At your place or hers? No, wouldn’t be your place, you wouldn’t want to admit where you lived. Hers.” Sherlock lit up and turned to the papers, flinging them across the room.

“Lock? What’s going on?” Asked John warily. Sherlock shuffled the papers before finding the one he wanted, triumphantly holding it up.

“She’s not changed address since the last time we met. She lives approximately two miles from where you picked up Mycroft, which inevitably means the Miles you are shagging is known to us as Emily Winters,” deduced Sherlock, voice rising in pitch.

“Oh God. She’s been under our noses this whole time,” exclaimed Lestrade. He headed out the door at full speed, determined to apprehend the woman before she could cause more trouble. Mycroft sat up in bed, breath hitching as tears tracked their way down his cheeks.

“My?” Sherlock whirled around, looking at his brother in his obvious distress.

“She _ruined_ my life! Wrought two children from me who have both died, tortured me, starved me, and I don’t even understand _why_ ,” sobbed Mycroft bitterly. Sherlock was taken aback by his brother’s sudden display of wrought emotion, but moved to comfort him as best he could, choosing to sit next to him on the bed and wrap his slender arms around him.

“I am sorry for what has happened My. I’ll fix it,” promised Sherlock.

“No. I want a phone. I need to ring Anthea; she can handle it. I want to know that this _woman_ will get exactly what she deserves,” hiccupped Mycroft. John stood up, padding from the room, and returning with a phone. He silently handed it to Mycroft before returning to his own bed, sitting on it cross-legged.

“Call Anthea. Sort it out. And then we’ll get you back on your feet,” promised John.

_Mycroft dialled Anthea._

* * *

“She’s got a mouth on her that one,” commented Donovan back at Scotland Yard.

“How did you and Anderson go at the house?” Asked Lestrade, watching the woman as she prowled her holding cell, clearly agitated.

“Well…” hesitated Donovan.

“What did you find?” Asked Lestrade, turning his full attention onto his officer. 

“I think you’d better come up to the offices,” suggested Donovan. Greg sighed before following her up the two flights of stairs. He entered his office to find a young child sitting in the corner, a girl, Anderson’s jacket draped across her, trembling as people kept trying to touch her. Greg glanced at Sally before kneeling on the floor, his knees creaking a little as he moved.

“Hi sweetie. What’s your name?” Asked Greg gently.

“Abby,” she whispered.

“Where did you find her?” Greg asked Sally.

“She was in another room near the basement. Anderson only found it when he leaned on a bookcase and it fell. Lucky she wasn’t behind it,” responded Sally. Greg looked at the small girl, his heart reaching out to her, before standing up.

“I want you with me. Anderson! Stay here with the girl!” Lestrade strode from the office, Donovan in his wake. He jogged down the stairs and headed straight for the holding cell, flinging the door open.

“Whose is she?” He demanded. Emily smirked.

“Mine.”

“Who’s her father?”

“Who do you think it is? Sherlock Holmes is the fucking father. I slept with the twat for one night, and I become a mother. A fucking mother! I didn’t want the bastard child, and my mother didn’t either, so I hid her in the house, and plotted Sherlock’s downfall for months. It was all going to plan too until his fucking brother escaped!” She hissed.

“She’s Sherlock’s?”

“Of _course_ she fucking is! Ridiculously smart like he is too, little brat. I was finally starting to get my life back together and _you fucking ruined it_!!” Emily snarled.

“You don’t even want to know what I’m going to charge you with,” commented Lestrade, desperately trying to restrain his emotions.

“I don’t bloody care; I’ve got people on the inside. I’ll be back out before you can say ‘boo’.” Greg turned around, heading out the door. Anthea was waiting for him, two burly men behind her.

“Mycroft asked me to give you this,” she said primly. Lestrade opened up the folded paper, perused it, then handed it back to Anthea.

“I trust you’ll handle records?” Anthea nodded, and Greg turned heel, motioning for Sally to follow him.

“Sir? You just let three civilians in there; what are you thinking?” Asked Sally, mortified.

“It’s better you don’t ask. Don’t mention this case again, don’t go looking for the files, or you’ll find yourself somewhere very far away and very remote,” answered Greg. He headed back to his office, mind focussed on the young child. He knocked before entering, and found Anderson sitting at his desk, Abby crying and trembling in the corner, the silence punctuated by an odd sniffle. 

“Abby? What’s wrong?” Asked Greg. Abby shook her head, refusing to open her lips. Greg looked at Anderson, face stern.

“I did nothing! I just asked her to be quiet!” Exclaimed Anderson, hands raised in surrender. Greg shook his head.

“Abby, I know it’s scary, but I’d like to take you to see a doctor, to make sure you’re okay. Could I do that?” Asked Greg quietly. Abby sniffled and nodded, stretching her arms out to Greg. He lifted her up carefully, tossing aside Anderson’s jacket, and held her close. He could feel every bone in her body, the tremors rippling through her as he carried her down the stairs and into his cruiser. He tucked her into the back seat, buckling her in and closing the door, before climbing into the front seat. He drove carefully, mindful of his precious cargo. When he arrived at St Bart’s he parked close to the emergency room entrance. He picked up Abby carefully and walked inside with her, heading straight to the triage nurse on duty.

“I’m DI Lestrade. Could you page Dr Shaw for me please?”


	8. Abby

Christian walked briskly towards A&E, wondering what could have cause Greg Lestrade to have him paged so urgently. His white lab coat billowed behind him as he took the stairs in sets of two, before finally arriving in the corridor that would lead him to A&E. He caught sight of Greg, a slight girl in his arms, and his step quickened.

“Greg? What’s going on?” Asked Christian, glancing at the DI who had become a part of their hospital over the past few weeks.

“It’s bit of a long story. Can we get her checked out please? I can explain,” blathered Greg. Christian nodded, leaning over and grabbing a clipboard. He motioned for Greg to follow him down the corridor to a private examination room.

“I’ll get one of the paeds nurses to help us out. Give me a second,” said Christian. He ducked out for a moment, then returned with a petite brunette.

“Hi sweetie. My name’s Immy. Do you mind if Dr Shaw and I have a look at you, make sure you’re okay?” Asked the nurse. Abby nodded, and allowed Greg to place her on the bed.

“This is Imogen, one of our second year nurses. She comes highly recommended by the nursing unit manager on the paeds floor,” explained Christian. He glanced at the Greg, the police officer swaying slightly. “Greg? Take a seat for a second; I’ll go and get you a glass of water.” Christian disappeared briefly before returning with a glass of water and a damp cloth. He handed them to Greg before joining Imogen in front of Abby.

“Abby is a very pretty name. Do you know your full name?” Asked Christian, snagging the clipboard  off the bed. Abby took a deep breath, clearly trying to recite from memory.

“Abigail Temperance Winters, I think.”

“What does Mummy call you?” Asked Imogen, grabbing a BP cuff off the table and wrapping it around Abby’s arm.

“Mummy doesn’t speak to me much. She used to, and then she found the man. The tall one; My. She told me to shut up, and then she locked me in the room. He was teaching me new things, things that Mummy didn’t know, and then he left with the babies,” answered Abby, watching as Imogen worked swiftly and carefully, noting details on a chart. Christian noted those details down before moving onto a very important questions on his list.

“Do you know when your birthday is?” Asked Christian, curious.

“The seventh of July,” replied Abby confidently. Christian scribbled it down on his own chart

“Do you know what year?” Abby shook her head, confidence faltering, then glanced at Imogen.

“Okay. Lets get your dress off so we can check you over. Is that okay?” Abby nodded at Imogen, and lifted her arms up. Imogen pulled the dress off over Abby’s head, and Christian had to stifle a gasp. Her chest and upper arms were littered with bruises, her ribs prominent, poorly healed laceration scars evident as well as perfectly circular scars. 

Cigarette burns.

_This was a child no-one had wanted._

“Okay. I’m going to get you something to wear. Do you have a favourite colour?” Asked Imogen, covering her surprise at the damage present. Abby motioned for the young nurse to come closer, and Imogen crouched down in front of her, eyebrows raised in question.

“What is this colour?” Asked Abby, indicating Imogen’s scrubs shirt.

“Pink, sweetie. It’s called pink,” answered Imogen. She stood up and grabbed the blanket from the end of the bed, draping it around the girl.

“Pink. I like pink,” responded Abby, eyes lighting up at her new discovery, Greg watching her.

_God, she was so much like Sherlock._

“Okay. You stay here with Dr Shaw and Greg, and I’ll bring you something to wear, alright?” Abby nodded, plucking a thread on the blanket Imogen placed around her.

“I think a paternity test might be in order, as well as a screening test, see if there’s anything else we’ll be dealing with genetically,” suggested Christian. Greg nodded, moving to sit on the bed with the girl.

“Where do I go now?” She asked, voice small and quiet, filled with fear.

“First, we’re going to take some blood. It might sting a little, but it means I can make sure that there are no bad things that can harm you. I’d also like to take some pictures of your insides, make sure they’re okay. After I’ve done that, we’ll get you dressed, and find you something to eat. Does that sound good?” Asked Christian. Abby nodded, eyes starting to droop with exhaustion.

“You sure you need a blood test?” Asked Greg. Christian nodded, grabbing a pre-prepared basin with a syringe and vacutainer. He drew the blood samples carefully, Abby barely flinching, watching on in fascination rather than horror. He put them back in the basin as Imogen returned, a small pile of clothing in her arms.

“Miss Abigail, I have a few things that I think you might like, that are in your favourite colour.” Imogen pulled out a pink hospital gown, a small fluffy robe and slippers for her feet.

“Let’s get you dressed, and then we’ll go do these pictures,” suggested Christian. He could see Abby flagging, and helped Imogen dress her. He stepped out into the hallway for a moment and returned with a wheelchair, Imogen helping to move the tired girl from the bed to the chair.

“Okay Miss Abigail, let’s go and get an X-ray!” Exclaimed Imogen. They started to walk away down the hall, and Abby burst into tears, clearly exhausted and terrified. Imogen stopped and crouched down in front of her.

“Sweetie? What’s wrong?” Asked Imogen, pulling a tissue from her pocket and handing to the tiny girl.

“I don’t know,” she admitted wearily. Imogen glanced at Christian, and he shook his head.

“We need the X-rays, then we can take her up to the paeds ward,” decided Christian. Imogen nodded, and glanced at Greg.

“I’m going to head up and see John, Sherlock and Mycroft. I need to take a statement from Mycroft, and once you have the paternity test results back, we can take everything from there.” Christian nodded, and Greg walked away, leaving the little trio to themselves as he stuffed his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunching in exhaustion. He stepped into the lift, mindlessly pressing the button for the floor he required, and silently cursed whoever decided elevator music was a good idea. He stepped out onto the fourth floor, walking the well-trodden path to the Holmes and Watson room, knocking before entering.

“You found something,” deduced Sherlock, glancing up at the DI. He nodded, taking a seat on the lounge and propping his feet up on the coffee table. Mycroft struggled into an upright position, John assisting him carefully.

“Abigail,” breathed Mycroft.

“Who on earth is Abigail?” Demanded Sherlock.

“We’ll talk about that later. Mycroft, why didn’t you tell us you had a five-year-old being held with you?” Asked Greg, rubbing his temples as he felt a killer headache starting to rage.

“Because the day I escaped, she wasn’t there, and I had heard screaming the night before. I didn’t know she was still alive,” responded Mycroft, tears wending their way down his cheeks. John passed him a tissue, watching his monitors as his heart rate started to pick up.

“Keep yourself calm Mycroft,” reminded John gently. Mycroft nodded, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

“She’s definitely alive Mycroft, and spoke of you a bit. Christian and a paediatric nurse have taken her for some x-rays, and then they’ll get her settled into the paediatric…”

“No. I want her here,” rasped Mycroft.

“She’ll be with the best…”

“No.” Mycroft’s resolve was firm, even in his invalided state. John shrugged at Greg.

“I’ll go and chat to the nursing staff now,” said John quietly, walking out of the room. Greg glanced at Sherlock, concerned.

“Is he okay?”

“Doctors say that it’s a reaction to everything that has happened. He’s become quite docile and placid. It’s unnerving really. I’m not sure how to help him,” admitted Sherlock.

“He’ll come around ‘Lock. He loves you, and he’s going to be okay. It’s been a lot to take in,” reminded Mycroft. Quentin appeared with Imogen, moving a paediatric bed into the room with Mycroft, Sherlock and John.

“I thought you’d be with Abby?” Greg asked Imogen.

“She’s being officially admitted by Christian, and then they’ll bring her up here. I’ve been asked to special her, so I’m moving up here to join this nursing team,” added Imogen, draping a pale pink blanket over the bed, now situated between Mycroft and Sherlock’s beds. Christian arrived moments later, Abby in a wheelchair in front of him, sporting a bright pink cast on her right wrist. She glanced up and realised Mycroft was there, and she stood up, crossing the room and laying on Mycroft’s bed, pulling herself close, Imogen moving leads out of the child’s way.

It was there she let her tiny heart go, bursting into tears. Mycroft held her awkwardly, desperately trying to soothe her, but unsure of what to do. He’d spent nearly two years with her in forced captivity, and was still unsure of how to comfort her.

“Sherlock? John? We need to have a chat,” said Christian quietly. He indicated for them to move out into the hallway, and they followed him out, each person keeping an ear out for the people in the room. Greg joined them a brief moment later, eager to hear Abby’s test results.

“We did a paternity test on Abby, and it has come back indicating that you are the father, Sherlock. With that in mind, and the fact that Emily Winters has no living family, you are eligible to keep her. However, if you feel that you may not be, there are plenty of services available to help you out,” reminded Christian gently. Sherlock rubbed his temple, a sign of pressure and stress, and looked at John, his anchor in the tumultuous seas.

_An anchor that wasn’t holding him steady right now._

_He needed to be John’s anchor._

“John? What do you think we should do?” Asked Sherlock.

“Whatever you think is necessary,” mumbled John. He spun around and returned to the room, tucking himself into the bed that he had occupied for nearly two weeks. Sherlock looked at Christian sadly.

“You have a while to think about this. Abby will need to be monitored for a few weeks, as there is no medical history available for her, and her x-rays show a multitude of stress fractures, and the wrist fracture was particularly concerning,” added Christian.

“Anything else we need to be aware of about her?” Asked Sherlock.

“She’ll probably need to see a child psychiatrist, and she’s behind in what she should know, based on others her age, but she is very bright Sherlock. She’s a lot like you,” smiled Christian. Sherlock nodded, and glanced back at the room.

“I need to tend to John. Will she be okay with Mycroft?”

“They were held in captivity together for two years. I think they’ll be okay,” answered Christian. Sherlock nodded, and returned to John, sliding into the bed next to him and pulling him close, whispering into his ear.

“We will make it through this, don’t you worry.”


	9. Down

_Abby is here…_

_I’m back at the house…_

_Where are the twins?_

_Sherlock?_

_Someone, help me!_

* * *

Sherlock slept.

John watched, disinterested, mind barely functioning. He watched as Mycroft and Abby slept, each tucked close to the other.

He was the one to notice the catch in Mycroft’s breathing, head tilted as he listened from across the room.

The heart monitors started to sing, notifying anyone who was listening that Mycroft’s heart was beating dangerously fast.

John slid out of bed carefully, not wanting to disturb Sherlock, and padded across to Mycroft’s bed. He pushed the emergency call button, and gently pulled Abby towards him, lifting her easily out of bed and into her own. Christian and William appeared, brows furrowed in confusion.

“William, call Cardiology; I want a consult as soon as possible,” ordered Christian.

“Can I help?” Asked Sherlock groggily.

“You stay there. We’re dealing with him,” answered Christian. William popped his head in, concerned.

“Cardiology said to bring him down, and they’ll check the pacing wires,” reported William.

“Alright, let’s go. Sherlock, we’ll be back soon, okay?” Sherlock nodded, watching as his brother was wheeled from the room. He glanced across at Abby, asleep on her bed, John sitting next to her.

“What are we going to do?” Asked Sherlock quietly.

“What do you want to do?” Countered John.

“I don’t know. I don’t know her,” replied Sherlock.

“You didn’t know me, but you deduced me quick enough to let me move in,” responded John. Any shifted on the bed and opened her eyes, shrinking back as she realised John was sitting next to her. 

“It’s okay Abby. This is John. He’s a friend of Mycroft’s,” explained Imogen quietly. Abby sat up, crossing her legs indian-style. 

“You’re My’s brother. Sh-sh-er…lock?” She tried, glancing at Sherlock for confirmation. He nodded firmly.

“Yes. Well done. What else do you know?” Asked Sherlock.

“You use your other hand to write, not the same one as My. You can tell because there is dirt on it where you were writing last night,” added Abby, pointing to Sherlock’s left hand.

“Very well done indeed,” remarked Sherlock.

“John? Can I ask something?” John nodded at Abby.

“What would you like to ask?” Abby pointed at John’s shirt, and then across at Sherlock’s.

“What colour is that? My was teaching me, but then he left, and I don’t know them yet,” lamented Abby. John’s heart melted at the little girl’s plight, and he ran a hand through her soft curls.

“This colour is blue. Maybe Immy can get us some things to look at, and we can learn about more colours,” suggested John. Imogen nodded, and left the room.

“What else was My teaching you?” Asked Sherlock.

“How to count, how to spell my name. My little name, because my big name has too many letters,” added Abby. Imogen returned, colouring books and readers in hand. She passed them to John before moving the table over the bed to Abby.

“These, Miss Abigail, are special pencils. They have each name of the colour written on the side of them, so if you forget, you can read them,” said Imogen, pulling out one of the thick gripped pencils and indicating the name imprinted in the wood. Abby smiled, taking the pencil in her left hand. Imogen flipped open a colouring book, and Abby started to colour in.

“Thank you,” whispered Sherlock, watching as Abby’s face lit up in enjoyment.

“It’s not a problem. Listen, we’ve heard back from Cardiology; they’re inserting a new pacing wire as the old one isn’t working properly. Mycroft is going to stay there for a few hours, and then they’ll bring him back here, and they’ll probably send a cardio nurse with him,” Imogen explained to John and Sherlock. John nodded, watching Abby as she coloured.

“What can you tell us about her?” Asked Sherlock, eager to know as much as he could. 

“We’ve found her birth records; she’s five years old, full name is Abigail Temperance Holmes, and you’re listed as the father, Sherlock. She’s not been taught much, she’s quite malnourished, her scans show signs of stress fractures, and we’re still waiting on some of her blood results to come back, just to clear her of anything,” explained Imogen.

“And you’re sure she’s mine?” Asked Sherlock softly. Imogen nodded, picking up Abby’s file and flipping through it until she reached the paternity results. She handed the chart to Sherlock, showing him the results. He read through it carefully, absorbing the information to store in his mind palace. After a few moments, he handed the file back to Imogen. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” Asked Imogen quietly. Sherlock looked at the young girl, observing her, taking note of everything she was doing.

“What happens now? How do we introduce her to me? To us?” Asked Sherlock, a thousand questions flitting through his mind. 

“She’s bright. She can understand what’s going on, so explain it, and keep it simple. Something along the lines of your mother and I knew each other before you were born, and you lost contact, and that her mother didn’t tell you about her, but now you know, you love her very much. Start off slow. She’ll be in here for a week at least, and you’ve got plenty of time to get to know her,” explained Imogen. Sherlock nodded, crossing the room to sit with the young girl.

“What’s that you’re colouring in?” Asked Sherlock.

“A flower. A purple flower. I think it needs a butterfly. And a bee,” said Abby, scrabbling through the pencils for the black and yellow pencils.

“Bees are nice. They’re very important for keeping flowers alive,” replied Sherlock.

“I like bees,” said Abby, scribbling on the page in an approximation of a bumble bee, black and yellow strips very prominent. 

“Abby, I’ve got something very important to tell you. Could you stop colouring for a moment please?” Asked Sherlock, voice almost stilted. He looked to John for guidance, and found none there, John indicating for him to speak. Abby set down her pencils and swivelled on the bed, facing Sherlock.

“Is it about Mummy?” She asked.

“A little,” admitted Sherlock.

“Is it about my Daddy?” Added Abby.

“Yes. Has your Mummy ever talked about your father?” Asked Sherlock. Abby shook her head, and uncrossed her legs, crawling closer to Sherlock.

“Mummy says my Daddy is very smart, but he didn’t know about me. She didn’t like him much, and she didn’t talk about him,” replied Abby, looking up at Sherlock.

“She said that, did she? Well, your mother was also very bright. She was at university when I met her, and she was also friends with Mycroft. I didn’t see her after she finished, and I didn’t know she was expecting. You are very beautiful, the same coloured eyes as your mother, and the same dark curls as your father,” said Sherlock. Abby reached up with her left hand, touching Sherlock’s hair. She looked at him, eyes piercing down to the soul, and pulled away from him. 

“You’re my father,” whispered Abby, glancing down to look at the bed. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes.” Abby looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes and falling down her slim cheeks.

“Why didn’t you come and save me?” She whispered. Sherlock felt his heart break in two for the small child, remembering times when he was a child that he wished Mycroft had come and saved him from their imbecilic parents. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling Abby close as the tears turned into wracking sobs. John watched the pair before moving back to his own bed, pulling the blankets up. Sherlock cast his eyes across to his husband, noticing the way he was withdrawing, and powerless to do anything with a five-year-old firmly ensconced on his lap. His attention was drawn to the door as Mycroft was returned, free of any wires excepting his pulse-oxy meter.

“You had to restart his heart,” deduced Sherlock.

“We did, and cardio have decided he doesn’t need the pacing wire at the moment, as his heart resumed a normal rhythm upon cardioversion. They’ve been monitoring him, and they’re happy to return him up here, and they’ll come in and check on him periodically,” answered Christian.

“That’s good, right?” Asked Sherlock.

“That’s great. This is getting him closer to going to home. It’ll still be a while yet, but we’re definitely getting there,” replied Christian. Sherlock nodded, attempting to get comfortable with a heavy weight on his lap; Abby was clinging to him like a starfish, wrapped around him, holding him tight. Christian smiled at the pair, and motioned for Imogen to help them out.

“You both need rest; stay with her for a while,” suggested Imogen, helping settle them both into Abby’s bed, blanket pulled up to cover both of them. Sherlock nodded, leaning back and closing his eyes, drifting off into his mind palace.

* * *

_Hot._

That was the first sensation on Sherlock’s mind when he awoke, limbs sweaty and sticky, already trying to wrench the blankets off. He realised Abby was still lying with him, and wrapped an arm around her, using his other hand to smooth her hair out of her face. He frowned as his hand touched feverish skin, glancing down at her pale skin.

“Imogen?” Called Sherlock. He tried to stretch for the call button, but it had been placed out of his reach. “Imogen!” Imogen poked her head in, eyebrows furrowed.

“What is it Sherlock?” She asked wearily.

“I think something is wrong with Abby. She’s feverish,” explained Sherlock. Imogen entered the room, heading for a bedside table and pulling out a thermometer, placing it carefully in Abby’s ear. She waited a moment before taking it out, checking the reading.

“39.4. Sherlock, I need you to let her go for a moment,” Imogen asked, pressing the call button. Sherlock peeled himself away, watching as Abby started to shiver. Christian and Eleanor entered the room, and Sherlock watched as the team moved into action.

“What’s going on?” Asked Christian.

“She’s febrile, looks like an infection,” replied Imogen. Eleanor helped her strip down Abby’s clothes, and Christian started to check her over.

“Front looks fine; let’s log roll her.” The moment they rolled her, Christian could see the problem; a laceration on Abby’s back had developed an infection, the wound angry, red and weeping. 

“Right; I want a loading dose of ampicillin now, and hang a bag of saline; I don’t want her dehydrated,” ordered Christian, aiding Imogen and Eleanor in rolling Abby back onto a covered pillow. Abby whimpered pitifully, the sound pulling on Sherlock’s heart.

“Abby? Are you okay?” Asked Sherlock quietly, watching as Imogen left.

“Daddy,” she whined, voice rising as tears overflowed. Sherlock returned to her bedside, holding her hand as Imogen returned, pushing a syringeful of fluid into Abby’s IV line.

“This will help you feel better, okay?” Reassured Imogen. Abby nodded, still clutching Sherlock’s hand, and glanced up at him, eyes wide and pained.

“Lay with me? Please?” She begged, voice hitching. Sherlock hesitated, then nodded, climbing under the blankets with her, angling himself so he faced her, cataloguing her every move and filing it in his mind palace. He lay like that for nearly ten minutes before he noticed the minor differences.

_Breath hitching._

_Wheeze._

_Lips blue._

He reached for her wrist, cradling it gently in his long slender fingers.

_Pulse weak._

_Skin swollen._

“Daddy? I feel sick,” complained Abby. She gagged for a second before heaving over the bed, narrowly missing Sherlock. She continued wheezing as Sherlock got out of the bed and helped raise Abby into a sitting position, pressing the call button for anyone.

“Someone help me please!” Called Sherlock. Christian sprinted in, and dashed to Sherlock’s side.

“Anaphylactic shock. She must be allergic to penicillin.” Christian yanked the bedside drawer open and took out an epinephrine shot, whipping back the blanket and jabbing it straight into Abby’s thigh. She trembled as the adrenaline shot flooded her system, the swelling in her face and limbs starting to subside slowly. Sherlock bent his forehead down to touch hers, his own heart racing. “You can move her to your bed if you want; we’ve got to clean hers out,” said Christian quietly. Sherlock nodded, carefully lifting Abby out of her bed. She leaned against Sherlock, weak and tired, and Sherlock took her back to his own bed, Christian following. Once they were settled Christian placed an oxygen mask on Abby’s face, turning up the oxygen on high, and clipped a pulse-oxy meter to her finger.

“We caught it in time. She’ll be okay Sherlock, just keep an eye on her.”


	10. Melancholy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn't forget you - my life has been very busy with uni (moreso than I expected) - but never fear, it hasn't been the two year long hiatus some of my other fics have experienced!!! This is the final chapter, and then there is at least one more part of the Time Heals Everything Series to go!

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she,” rasped Mycroft. Sherlock’s head snapped up, realising his elder sibling was awake.

“My. Are you feeling better?” Asked Sherlock quietly. Mycroft nodded, wincing slightly.

“A little more myself, but still tender. Have you told her?”

“Of course. She took it very well,” answered Sherlock, tucking a stray curl of Abby’s behind her ear.

“What about John?” Asked Mycroft, glancing across the other bed. Sherlock’s brow furrowed, unsure of how to answer the question.

“I’m not sure. I think he’s okay. He’s not exactly himself Mycroft,” retorted Sherlock.

“Perhaps you should speak to him, find out how he’s handling this; it’s a big step for him as well,” replied Mycroft.

“He’s John; he’ll be fine,” responded Sherlock dismissively. He snuggled back under the blankets with Abby, immensely glad she was feeling better. He glanced up at Christian as he walked in the door, a wad of papers in his hand.

“As soon as you and John are ready, we’re happy for Abby to go home. The reaction she had earlier was indeed caused by the penicillin; further study into Emily Winters’ medical history details a penicillin allergy that has been prevalent throughout several generations. Her bloodwork has come back otherwise normal, excepting slight abnormalities in her iron levels, but we believe it will balance out as she starts to eat more. She will need regular checkups for at least twelve months to make sure she’s developing as expected, especially considering her past,” explained Christian. Sherlock nodded, filing the information away.

“What about John and myself? When are we able to be discharged?” Asked Sherlock.

“John should be able to go home tonight, if he so desires. Hannah is happy to discharge you tomorrow morning after Mark reviews you, provided you eat a full meal tonight and in the morning,” answered Christian.

“And Mycroft?”

“Two, possibly three weeks while we get his nutrition back in order. We’d also like to manage the heart condition a little more, make sure his heart is coping. He’ll be back on his feet in no time, Sherlock. He’s already improving faster than we ever would have expected, and he’s doing really well,” explained Christian. Sherlock nodded, pulling Abby closer to him and revelling in her warmth.

“Thank you Christian. When will they be bringing dinner around?” Asked Sherlock, eyes starting to droop.

“We’ll wake you up when it arrives. Get some rest.”

* * *

  _Sherlock doesn’t want me._

_Abigail doesn’t want me._

_How am I supposed to do this?_

_I’m not worth this._  

* * *

“That’s it, you’re discharged. Any further problems, you know what you’re looking for John. We’ll look after Mycroft, I promise,” said Christian the next morning.

“Abigail is allowed to come as well?” Asked Sherlock. Christian nodded.

“Paeds have given her the all clear, and we agree; she’ll need to see her GP regularly, but she’s fine Sherlock,” reassured Christian.

“Only if you’re sure. Come on Abby, it’s time to show you your new home!” Exclaimed Sherlock.

“Anthea will meet you downstairs to make sure you’re okay, and will accompany you home to ensure your safety,” added Mycroft.

“And then she’ll be coming back to spend a long night beside your bed, brother. She feels responsible for what happened two years ago, and she’s emotionally hung up on it. You should deal with that,” added Sherlock scathingly. Mycroft nodded.

“She has ensured everything is perfect. Remember that, brother mine.” Sherlock swirled around and walked out the door, Abby close behind him, John bringing up the rear.

“John?” Called Mycroft.

“Mmm?”

“Are you alright? You seem… off,” hesitated Mycroft.

“I’m fine Mycroft,” replied John softly. He followed Sherlock and Abby out of the room and down the corridor, into the elevator. Sherlock was talking animatedly to the young girl beside him, and John watched on quietly as they interacted, almost jealous of the attention Sherlock was getting. They arrived in the foyer of the hospital, Anthea waiting for them in a brand new suit.

“The car is waiting outside,” she announced. Abby tucked her smaller hand into Sherlock’s much larger hand, looking for reassurance.

“She’s okay. She’s a friend of My’s,” responded Sherlock. Anthea smiled at Abby, and Abby stepped back, clearly frightened. Sherlock picked her up easily, cradling her close as he climbed into the dark car. John followed them, sitting next to Sherlock, barely glancing up as Anthea closed the door. Sherlock whispered to Abby as the car lurched forward, taking them home to Baker Street, and John fiddled with his hands, unused to Sherlock’s blatant ignorance. The car pulled up out the front of Baker Street, and Sherlock swept out of the vehicle, Abby still in his arms. He practically flew up the stairs before setting Abby down on her feet, showing her around the flat. 

“This is our skull. If you ever get lonely, you’re welcome to talk to it,” explained Sherlock. 

“Where do I sleep?” Asked Abby. Sherlock paused for a moment, glancing down at the young girl beside him.

“I’m not sure. Let’s investigate the rest of the flat first, and we’ll work that out,” decided Sherlock. John ignored them, heading for his safe haven of a room at the top of the next flight stairs. He climbed each step slowly, listening out to Sherlock and Abby as they snooped around the apartment. He pushed open his door, only to discover it had changed colour, and ownership.

“Sherlock? Abby? I’ve found what you’re looking for,” called John, despondent. Abby and Sherlock trampled up the stairs, and shoved past John, Abby squealing in delight at the new pink room that was all hers, frilly curtains adorning the windows, toys practically exploding out of a toy box in the corner.

_He’d lost his safe haven._

John trudged back down the stairs, and into Sherlock’s room. He found nothing of his own visible, the only thing that had moved into Sherlock’s room being his clothes. He walked further into the room, and sat on the edge of the bed, his nerves feeling frayed, temper short, anger just below the skin. 

 _It was like he didn’t matter._  

* * *

The rest of the evening was fairly quiet; Mrs Hudson made them a lovely roast dinner and enjoyed the meal with them, getting to know Abby. After she’d left, Sherlock started to settle Abby for bed.

“So you’ll sleep up here, and if anything happens, you let me know, okay?” Reassured Sherlock. Abby nodded, tucked into bed in her Frozen pyjamas, a cuddly teddy bear laying next to her. Sherlock kissed her forehead gently before turning out the main light, leaving the room dimly lit by a nightlight as he walked down the stairs. Abby snuggled deeper beneath the blankets, watching the shadows as they flickered on the walls. A siren in the street startled her, and she pulled the blanket higher, trying to hide from everything, terror coursing through her veins. She whimpered softly, not confident enough to climb out of bed and seek out her new father or his friend, but not sure if she wanted to stay in bed much longer on her own. A car horn blared loudly and she squeaked, tears sliding down her cheek and dampening her pillow. She clutched the teddy closer as another siren screamed past, the windows rattling as it passed before she started sobbing in fear.

“Daddy,” she cried, voice catching in her throat. She felt a hand touch her head and shrieked in terror, sitting bolt upright.

“Shh,” whispered Sherlock. Abby leaned against his chest and cried, and Sherlock scooped her up, tucking both of them under the blankets to ward off the chill.

“What has you frightened?” Asked Sherlock gently.

“It’s too loud,” replied Abby tearfully, clutching Sherlock tightly. He stroked her back, soothing her as he laid with her, listening to the sounds of the outside world echoing through her room.

“It’s okay. I’ll keep you safe.” 

* * *

John awoke to a cold bed the next morning, the other side of the bed barely touched, blankets thrown back carelessly, but barely a wrinkle in the sheets. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling, wondering what was going on in his husbands head. He heard noises coming from the kitchen, and stumbled out of bed to investigate. He found Mrs Hudson in the kitchen with Sherlock and Abby, serving them up a hearty cooked breakfast.

“Not too much for me Mrs Hudson,” reminded Sherlock.

“Daddy! You need to eat more,” admonished Abby. He smiled at her, and nodded to Mrs Hudson.

“Maybe a little more,” he acquiesced. Mrs Hudson tipped a little more scrambled eggs onto the toast, and served the pair at the kitchen bench. Abby glanced at Sherlock, waiting for him to start eating before she did, still unsure of Mrs Hudson. Sherlock picked up a slice of toast and bit off the corner, and Abby followed his lead.

“I didn’t expect you to be up,” said John quietly.

“Oh! Good morning John. Abby was hungry, and I’m not sure how to cook, and Mrs Hudson offered to help,” explained Sherlock, looking almost guilty that he hadn’t woken John.

“Oh John, Sherlock didn’t think you’d wake up until much later, and I haven’t made any extra for breakfast. I can whip some up for you now if you’d like?” Apologised Mrs Hudson.

“No, it’s fine. Thank you Mrs Hudson,” dismissed John. Mrs Hudson washed the utensils in the sink, placing them in the drying rack before disappearing from 221B, and John took her place, flicking on the kettle to make tea.

“Daddy, what are we going to do today?” Asked Abby.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Papa? Maybe we could visit My,” suggested Sherlock, diligently trying to finish his meal.

“John? Daddy and I would like to visit My today,” demanded Abby. John turned around and raised an eyebrow at the child; definitely Sherlock’s DNA coursing through her veins. Sherlock didn’t even glance up, not seeing an issue with the interaction. John just shook his head, turning back to the counter and filling his mug with hot tea. 

“John?” Prodded Sherlock.

“What, Sherlock?”

“Could we visit My today?” Asked Sherlock quietly.

“Abby, could you go to your room and play please? Daddy and Papa need to talk,” requested John.

“Okay John. Will you come play with me Daddy?” Asked Abby, climbing down from her chair.

“Soon. I promise.” Abby skipped from the room, and Sherlock looked at John.

“She’s not been here for more than twenty-four hours, and she’s already testing boundaries. We’re married, and she legally becomes my child, and she won’t even call me Papa. We’re not visiting Mycroft today; we can visit him tomorrow,” responded John testily. Sherlock looked taken aback at John’s tone, and stood up, following the same path his daughter had walked only moments before. John watched Sherlock walk away, and slammed his mug down on the bench, hard enough for it to shatter into little bits. John swore under his breath before he started to clean up the mess, dumping the shards in the bin, and wiping the bench down. Once he was finished, he glanced around the kitchen, looking for something to do.

_It was clean._

He walked into the living area.

_It was clean._

By now, Sherlock would be moaning at John at the lack of a decent case, or Lestrade would be calling them out to do something. Two years ago when Mycroft had first gone missing he’d resigned from his own job at the clinic with Sarah to care for Sherlock, and now, John had nothing to do.

He retired to the bedroom, laying down in the middle of the bed and staring at the ceiling.

 _He didn’t know what to do anymore._  

* * *

Things didn’t get any better for John.

A month after their release, Abby slammed a door in John’s face, telling him she hated him.

_She still refused to call him Papa._

Three months in, Sherlock disagreed with John’s parenting style, allowing Abby to come along to a gory crime scene, against both Lestrade and John’s wishes.

She loved it, just like her father, showing an odd fascination in a blood spatter pattern.

_She told John she loved her ‘Daddy’._

At the six month mark, John began to hear from Mycroft every time he forbade Abby to do something; he forbade her to bathe in her clothes with all her toys, he forbade her to cut her own hair, he forbade her to help in one of Sherlock’s more toxic experiments, and every time he said no, she rang Uncle My on the phone he had given her, and minutes later John was coping an earful from his brother in law.

_“Uncle My loves me more than you do.”_

Seven months of having Abby in their house, and John was starting to reach breaking point. He tried to go out with Lestrade for a beer, and found himself nursing a concussed Abby after she deliberately ran into a door as an experiment with Sherlock. He called his own sister four times, with her finally picking up on the fourth sounding rather breathless, a mans voice in the background. 

He didn’t call her back after that.

Nine months, and John had stopped crawling the walls, stopped deducing things with Sherlock, had stopped interacting with his husband, and started spending copious amounts of time on the internet researching divorce.

_Maybe Mycroft was right three years ago when he said John wasn’t right for Sherlock._

_Maybe John was the mistake in all this mess._

When that didn’t get him anywhere, he started planning what he would do next. Sherlock didn’t need him anymore; with a daughter in the mix, he found he didn’t need to remind Sherlock to eat, because Abby reminded him when she was hungry, and they ate together. His stress levels were down, so his seizures had abated, and he was diligent in checking his own blood sugar.

_John felt useless._

_John felt worthless._

_John felt alone, bitter, betrayed by a five-year-old whom Sherlock appeared to love more than his own husband._

Twelve months after Abby Holmes joined John Watson and Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street, John left in the dark of night, slipping out like a shadow.

And Sherlock woke up to his world turned upside down once more.


End file.
